


Kryptikos

by merrowbell



Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: Also tagging preemptively for:, Alternate Canon, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Oh and wear a hard hat: there are rock puns ahead, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, in which Barbara is gay and neurodivergent and cute as hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29297043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrowbell/pseuds/merrowbell
Summary: Diana Prince was a puzzle, one far more intriguing to Barbara than some dollar-store citrine. But how to assemble her, with so many pieces missing?A reimagining of WW84 that tells a braver love story.
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Barbara Minerva
Comments: 60
Kudos: 119





	1. Widfloga

> You think I’m not a goddess?  
>  Try me.  
>  This is a torch song.  
>  Touch me and you’ll burn.
> 
> ―  **Margaret Atwood, Helen Of Troy Does Countertop Dancing**

* * *

You know what they say about the truth? That it stands right in front of you; that it stares you in the face. Unmistakable: a neon sign hanging above your head that you never bothered to look at.

Which is crazy. Because the truth is a coward. It hides behind your back, or in the shadows where you don’t want to look. Sometimes it waits under bridges with gloves and a switchblade. Sometimes it comes to you like a lover, with a kiss.

Barbara should have figured out the truth about Diana the moment she met her. Barbara Ann Minerva, with her two PhDs and her bookshelves bristling with folklore, should have recognised what she was looking at.

But you don’t, do you? You don’t go about life expecting the extraordinary to fall into your lap, like something flung from the hand of God. You don’t expect Bigfoot to follow you into an elevator one morning at a quarter to nine.

But Diana Prince, like the truth, was under her nose from the start.

That morning, Barbara had beaten the sun to rising. She’d changed her outfit five times—but who was counting, anyway?—before settling on dark stirrup pants and a hushed pink ruffle blouse that she hoped looked smart rather than ridiculous. Then she’d spent an uncomfortable half hour under the cold glare of the mirror, dabbing a mascara brush and a tissue alternately to her watering eyes.

Despite _that_ nightmare, she’d still left forty-five minutes before she needed to. As she set off, it occurred to Barbara that she had neither eaten her breakfast nor watered her plants. But that was fine: she’d grab an early lunch somewhere afterwards, and the plants… well. If they possessed the sentience Barbara was in the habit of inventing for them, they’d forgive her a day’s neglect.

Her apartment was on average an hour and seven minutes’ walk from the National Museum of Natural History. Barbara knew that because she’d rehearsed this walk every day for the past week.

What she hadn’t factored in was the half hour it took her to freak out behind the chrome taps of the public restroom.

It was the entrance hall that did it: the vast, open atrium, the brecciated marble pillars; the electric globes of light in their sconce-like fittings. Even the elephant who stood guard at centerstage looked less friendly than she remembered.

It was the grandness of the place. The gravity of it.

_What are you DOING here, Barbara?_

Messing it up, that’s what she was doing, messing everything up, like she’d _known_ she would.

She’d done everything right—taken all the steps, performed all the her superstitious little rituals, and yet here she was, standing in front of a restroom mirror, anxiety tearing holes in her chest, unable to meet her own gaze.

It wasn’t unusual to be nervous. This was the biggest job opportunity of her life, after all. It was just that she wasn’t… good at this part. The interviews. People didn’t _like_ Barbara. Didn’t remember her, even. Or if they did, it was for the wrong reasons. She gestured too much, talked too much—or too fast, or too quiet, or sometimes an ugly jumble of the three.

Then people frowned, like they had seen something she hadn’t meant to show them. Something embarrassing and distasteful and maybe a little uncomfortable to look at.

Barbara had scoured herself a hundred times for those fault lines; she had excavated every inch of herself to see what they were seeing. But she’d never found it, never been able to bury it someplace deep enough to hide. In every new face, she saw that same awkward wince, that same curling lip.

Like they could smell it on her: that strangeness; that wrongness.

Barbara wished they’d let her in on what it was. There was something frightening about it: a monster she couldn’t see. She felt it crouching in her chest like an animal, hiding.

Right. OK. Enough.

She pulled her face into something like composure. Repositioned her hairclip; fixed her glasses on her nose; looked herself in the eye. Then she walked out of the the restroom, heels on, sneakers tucked into her backpack, and got herself a coffee from the Atrium café.

Which was the first mistake.

She’d had the stupid idea that it would calm her nerves, but coffee didn’t do that, it made you jumpy, everyone knew that. It was quarter to nine at that point, but she needed something to do with her hands or she’d just pick at her nails until they bled, and wouldn’t _that_ make for a great handshake?

She’d thought she might sit in the cafe, but the man frowning at her from behind the coffee machine had muttered that they weren’t technically open yet, and given her a sour look as she approached a table.

She’d taken the hint. It wasn’t a big deal; there were seats up on the second floor. She’d be fine. She’d be fine!

Barbara knew the layout of the building; she had been to visit most days since she sucked up the guts to put her resume in an envelope and send it off.

Instead of risk all those stairs—in heels, she’s a disaster in heels—with a scalding beverage in hand, she figured she’d take the elevator.

And that was the second mistake.

The doors closed, and she sucked in a deep breath, glancing around at the dim cage of blank walls. The light spat an inconsistent shadow on the floor, distorting her reflection in the steel, twisting her body into something clownish and delivering it back to her without comment.

It was stupid to get the coffee. It was quarter to nine; she wouldn’t have time to drink it. And what then? Was she going to walk into the most important interview of her career with a disposable cup clutched in her hand?

She tapped her foot in the damp electric spill and resisted the urge to check the mirror, the real mirror on the back wall. If she looked, she’d find something new to worry about, and then she’d definitely be late. 

_Chill out, Minerva._

She’d go wait outside the room, sit on one of the polished, parrot-green leather sofas. She’d drink her coffee, and she’d calm down. She’d leave the cup by the seats. Collect it after the interview and find somewhere to dispose of it. No one was here to judge her for it.

The doors slithered apart in the middle of her pep talk, and Barbara, standing too close, too eager to get going, _stupid_ , jumped out of her skin when they revealed someone standing on the other side.

A shock of heat slapped her across the chest. She gasped. Two dollar styrene bounced between her feet. And then the pain—sharp, scalding, red.

“Oh—”

It was like the palatial splendour of the museum had compacted into a single person. Like looking at one of those gleaming marble pillars made flesh.

She hit the back of the elevator, slamming all the buttons at once. Before the doors could close, she—the woman—tall, sculpted, breathtaking—stepped through them in one fluid stride.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice had the same quality as smoke, and an accent Barbara couldn’t begin to place. “Are you alright?”

“I—I’m—um—” The words came out in quick little breaths. Hysteria tensed its fist around her throat. She couldn’t tell if it was the heat or the shock making her gasp. And she couldn’t… she couldn’t take her eyes off this woman. “I’m fine, I…”

She carried herself like a gazelle. Long legs, angular frame. Her hand touched Barbara’s arm. Warm; no jewellery; strong fingers.

“I’m sorry for startling you. Are you hurt?”

Barbara couldn’t quite bring herself to look down at the blotched mess of her shirt. She could feel the welts rising to the surface of her skin, insignificant. She shook her head, no.

“Do you have a spare shirt in your office?”

“Oh, I don’t—” She swallowed the quaver in her voice. Instead, a smile burst to her lips, and she laughed. Instinctive; an animal showing its belly. “Gosh, no, I… I don’t work here yet. I mean, probably not ever now.” She almost jumped; the realisation was like a second scald. The smile wavered but clung on. “Way to make an impression, right?”

The tall woman didn’t smile. Her brow creased in a frown so fierce that Barbara felt herself beginning to stutter an apology. Did she say something wrong? She scanned those sharp features, reading nothing.

“You’re here for the interviews?”

“Y-yeah, R-Research Geologist, I…” She allowed herself a glance towards the mirror, and flinched at the state of herself. A brown trench gaped across her chest, plastering the flimsy little shirt to her skin. She lifted the fabric gingerly between her thumb and finger. “Wow. I don’t… I can’t walk in there like this. Can I? No, obviously not, that would be… awful.”

The other woman smiled then, and the whole elevator brightened, like she’d just dialed up the voltage of the strip light above their heads.

“It’s alright. I’ll let them know it was my fault.”

“Oh—but it wasn’t!” The words came out too fast, tripping over her tongue. “No, it was… me, I do this kind of thing, um—literally all the time. Do you think they’d reschedule? No, not at this notice, that—that would be unprofessional to ask, wouldn’t it? I’m—I’m sorry, I don’t need to be saying all this out loud.”

“Breathe,” said the tall woman. Side note, had she noticed how beautiful she was? Towering cheekbones, golden complexion, and that _hair,_ falling perfectly across her shoulder, like waves of eolian sandstone. Her eyes, now that they held her, seemed like they could set Barbara alight.

Barbara lost her train of thought in much the same way she’d dropped her coffee.

The elevator hummed scornfully, and opened its doors onto the first floor.

There was a man on the other side. He was lanky and coiffured, and when he glanced towards them, he lit up. “Hi, Diana.”

Barbara felt herself contract as he stepped forwards. Her arms fastened to her chest, ridiculous—as if she could possibly hide that stain.

The tall woman moved fractionally, shielding her from view.

On purpose?

“Hi, Carl.” She flashed that thousand-watt smile. “Could you take the other elevator?”

Her voice was so warm that for a second he seemed not to understand her meaning. His grin was only just beginning to fade when the doors closed in his face.

And then they were moving again.

Now Barbara was sure: this was maybe the most intimidating woman she had ever met. Not in a threatening way, just—just—an incredible way. Effortless, like the way she had… And her name—Diana?

“So…” She glanced at her wrist, as if nothing had happened. Barbara didn’t have to follow her gaze to see the face of her watch, the minute hand chopping its way towards 12. “When is your interview?”

“Oh, uh… ten minutes.” She smiled again, but defeat had already flattened her voice. She realised she was still clutching the collar of her blouse. She’d clenched it too tight; now it was stained _and_ creased. “I could… maybe clean up if I had more time, but I just…. I don’t, so…” She drew a shaky breath. “It’s funny, I just spent half an hour in the restroom trying to convince myself not to run out of here before you—before we met, so… maybe it’s a sign.”

The doors chimed again, opening onto the deserted second floor. The Department of Gems and Minerals was right there, signposted in brass. The Hope Diamond was the first thing you’d see as you turned the corner. Barbara had spent a full day researching its history, just in case she had the opportunity to fact-drop on her way past.

_Show-off._

The woman… Diana, her name was Diana—her hand was still closed around Barbara’s elbow.

“You know, accidents happen. No one here is beyond mistakes. I don’t think anyone will judge you harshly.”

“Yeah. Yes. You’re right, I just…” Barbara stepped back, chanced another glance into the mirror and cowered at the state of herself. Cheeks blotched with color. Mascara smudged. (So much for _that_ battle.) She shook her head. “If they see me, like this…” She tried to laugh, but it was too brittle to get out whole. “Well, I don’t think they’ll ask me if I react well under pressure.”

Diana smiled at her, lips pulling upwards into the kind of bow you’d pin on Christmas wrapping. Her eyes creased into dark crescent moons. She looked kind when she smiled. Kind enough that Barbara forgot to stop herself.

“It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. People don’t… I don’t make a great impression at the best of times. It’s probably, you know, this was probably fate. I mean, The Smithsonian? Who am I kidding, right?”

You needed more than book smarts to work at a place like this. You needed—confidence, assurance, authority. Whatever that secret quality was, Barbara didn’t have it. But it rolled off this woman in waves.

She lifted her hand from Barbara’s arm, and pressed a button behind her. The doors of the elevator slid closed like a sheath.

That low, rustling voice. “Take off your shirt.”

“I—what?” Did she just… was that just in Barbara’s head? The scalding heat crawled up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks.

“You can take mine.”

Really? What? Was this happening?

Apparently, yes, if her fingers at her top button were anything to go by. Where was she _from?_ Europe…? A scene came to her in waterpastel; fossil-hunting on the beaches of Denmark— _where are you,_ _widfloga?_ —myriad nude bodies ambling around her: indifferent, amorphous, unexceptional.

_Free._

Real life snapped back in her face like a rubber band.

“Oh, no—you don’t have to… you _really_ don’t have to…” Barbara tore her eyes from that exposed throat. It felt scandalous, like glancing up at the top shelf of the magazine rack and catching something in the riot of headlines: ‘Babes of Broadway’, or ‘Stewardesses — a glorious pictorial’, or just the steely gaze of Brooke Shields in unbuttoned denim. Dangerous, like you could cut yourself even by looking.

“It will take me minutes to go home and change.” She smiled, unfazed, as if this was all normal, just a normal, standard… situation. “It’s no trouble.”

Was she for real? This wasn’t—people didn’t do this. Not for a stranger, not for some bumbling dork that you’d never see again if you were lucky. People weren’t like that. Like this.

“It’s… how could…” _Words, Barbara._ “It’s ten to nine, you’ll never…”

“Trust me,” she said, and when Barbara tore her gaze from the floor, she was half-naked, her shirt slipping from her shoulders like water.

Beneath, she was bare-breasted, sinuous, sculpted like bronze. Muscle carved her torso. She held herself in her nakedness with the dignity of someone completely at home in their own skin. It was—hypnotising, her naturality. Even as Barbara stared at her, jaw unhinged against her chest, she didn’t so much as drop her eyes.

“Quickly.”

_Whatever you say._ Her fingers jumped in immediate response. They scrambled up to her top button, and struggled there, shaking too badly to get it undone. But she kept trying. What was the alternative, to not do as she said?

The woman—stranger— _goddess?_ —stepped up to her and gently disentangled her fingers. Barbara’s hands dropped to her sides—too fast—and Diana unclasped the top button, and then the next. Barbara didn’t stop her. She didn’t do anything at all except try to dampen the concussive beating of her heart. Her body reverberated, like someone was hammering a doorbell on the other side of her sternum.

In moments, she was standing in nothing but her pants and her camisole and her own burning flesh.

Diana paused a moment to regard the patch of reddened skin, long enough that Barbara’s insides began to wither under her gaze. Then, without a word, she swept her own blouse across Barbara’s shoulders.

It was a deep, ashen mauve, and far softer than Barbara’s half-price polyester. A delicate broderie anglais circled the sleeves and collar. Barbara had the distinct impression that this was maybe the most expensive piece of clothing she’d ever touched in her life.

She should say something. At least _pretend_ she wasn’t speechless. “I—I don’t know how to…I mean, thank you, I don’t know how to—should I give this back? Where can I find you?”

“Don’t worry,” she addressed Barbara’s fluttering breasts as she buttoned her into her shirt. To her credit, she hadn’t broken that serious expression. “You can do that when you get the job.”

She paused, her gaze flickering up. Those eyes… they might have cut glass.

“You know, you should be confident in there,” She left the top button open, and began to unwind the scarf from around her neck. The fact that she was still completely, flagrantly topless was almost incidental. “They only interview the strongest applicants. Have faith in yourself. You can afford it.”

She looped the scarf around Barbara’s neck. It was silk, lilac, weightless. Barbara lifted her head, letting her arrange the folds against her collar. The pads of her fingers brushed her bare throat, and sparks ran down her body like little bolts of static electricity.

“There.” Diana smiled, pressing her fingers very gently to the silk. “Wet this and leave it against your skin before you go. And wash the burn under cool water when you get home, OK?”

“Y-yeah, OK.” Was she supposed to do anything but agree with her?

“Good.” Diana reached for Barbara’s sodden shirt, leaving her to glow in the wake of her praise. She glanced again at her watch. “You can still make it.”

Five to nine. She was right. But Barbara hesitated. “I don’t… no one’s ever…”

As she ground to a halt, the woman reached out and touched her cheek. Just… cupped it with her hand. Barbara couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that. Maybe in pity, maybe that summer she was hobbling around on crutches. Maybe her mom.

“Hey.” Her smile cracked open like an egg, bright and golden. “I think you’re going to rock in there.”

Did she… was that a geology pun? That wasn’t a geology pun. No one was that perfect. Barbara laughed, dazed and hot and kind of giddy. She almost didn’t notice the doors reopening.

A woman sporting thick bangles and an admiral blue cardigan gave the largest double take Barbara had seen this side of slapstick.

”Oh—we were—” Roaring flames leapt to her cheeks.

Next to her, Diana, this supernova of a woman with immaculate hair and a cashmere voice and a body that looked like it had been sculpted by Phidias of Athens; Diana, wearing nothing but pants and heels and an expression as cool and clear as the open ocean—just smiled.

“Good morning, Carol.”

“Diana!” Carol gaped between them, from Diana to Barbara, back to Diana, like she was maybe shaking a magic 8-ball in her head to work out what she was seeing. “What—are you—uh—what exactly…”

“Forgive me, I held up our candidate.” She gestured to the shirt over her arm. “Can you go ahead without me?”

Barbara’s head whipped around. _Without…?_

Diana smiled—wide, easy, natural, as if all her Mondays started like this. “She was very helpful.”

The elevator chimed agreement.

“Oh—er…” Carol’s eyes passed over to Barbara, almost gratefully. “Dr. Minerva, is it?”

“That’s—yeah, that’s me!” And Barbara tripped forwards, beetroot red, the smile breaking across her lips. “I can explain, wow, all of this, I promise…”

“Right.” And she waved a hand, emphatically polite, backing away from the elevator and averting her eyes with incalculable speed.

Gingerly, Barbara stepped after her, feeling oddly… _good_ inside the gentle weave of the blouse, with the silk pressing a light caress around her neck. _Have faith in yourself_ , it seemed to remind her. _You can afford it._

She looked over her shoulder to see the doors closing on the warm flash of that smile.

And Barbara thought: that was the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.

Who could blame her? It was the 80’s. Magicians prowled every corner, conjuring a new fad, a new diet, a new serum, a new dream. And all you had to do for the magic to work was to close your eyes and believe.

Well, Barbara believed, alright. She fell for it, hard.

The truth hurts. They say that, too.

She should have seen it coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Carl.


	2. Snallygaster

_She runs down the edge of the field. Thorns scratch like nails at her hips. She doesn’t know where she’s going, just that she must run, she must run and then_

Barbara jerked awake. In the kitchen, the phone was rattling in its cradle. Someone calling her. Someone… at this time? Wait, what… what _was_ the time?

She rolled out of bed, banging the door frame as she stumbled into the kitchen. She balanced the receiver against a slack cheek, the chill of the linoleum sinking through her bare feet, and mumbled, “Hnh?”

A man’s voice crackled on the other end of the line. There were words, but… Barbara must have misheard.

“Could you, uh… sorry?”

“The job, Doctor. It’s yours.”

The job. The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian wanted to hire her.

“Dr. Minerva?”

“Yeah.” She blinked. “I mean—what? No. No way.”

She’d wound the cable so tightly around her fingers that her knuckles had turned white. It was a joke, right? There was a hidden clause. A fine print, tucked out of sight. She pushed her hand to her glasses, before realising she wasn’t wearing them.

There was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. “Do you not... want the job?”

“Oh—God! Yes! Yes, sorry, I want it, I… I’ll take it.”

For a brief, blinding moment, she thought about calling her dad. She wouldn’t, obviously, but she felt the pinch in her stomach. This time… this time Barbara had done something right.

And she was going to keep it that way.

She left Georgetown each morning at seven thirty sharp, power-walked her way down Rock Creek Trail, and usually hit Independence Avenue within the hour. She took the scenic route—she always had the time—past the paddle boats on the tidal basin and through the Constitution Gardens. You didn’t want to arrive _that_ early; it made you look too keen.

If she needed a minute, she’d take a detour past the Memorial Wall, casting her eyes down those thousands upon thousands of names etched into the polished black granite.

Sometimes, Leon would be there too.

He’d found Barbara on her first day, breathing hard into her cupped hands. She hadn’t seen him—her eyes were tightly shut at the time—and he’d made sure to call out before he approached her. Just passing, he told her. Couldn’t help noticing you there. He told her how he used to come by every morning on account of Miss Sherry—that dog could give you an order with just her eyes—and he still liked to walk this way from time to time, take a loop around the Lincoln Memorial, catch up with old friends. He talked easily, affably, and when Barbara was ready to get back on her feet, he wished her good luck. She never told him what those ten minutes meant to her, but she brought him a hot meal at the end of the day, and every day after that as she scrambled through her first week of work.

It felt like five days of tightrope walking.

The entrance hall didn’t seem any less grand, no matter how many times she walked through it. But at least there were things to do—donations to be catalogued, heirlooms to be valued, reports to be logged, identifications, appraisals, a mountain of assignments that… that she’d completed by her third day.

Always eager to please.

There were other, less tangible things to remember, too—first names and coffee orders; the right time to smile; how long was too long to hold a handshake.

Barbara walked on her toes, waiting for the trapdoor to open underneath her.

She felt eyes tracking away from her as she approached, whispers hanging behind her as she left, and she knew they had seen it. The strangeness. The wrongness. The hidden animal, out of place.

But now and then she would glimpse Diana. She was always in conversation with someone, or passing on the other side of a pane of glass. In one hand she’d be holding a file or a wad of important looking letters, and she always looked immaculate, like she was on her way to the set of a Hollywood movie. But sometimes she’d glance Barbara’s way. And she’d smile.

It was a little hit of adrenaline each time. There was a warmth in her eyes that said maybe she remembered her—like she was slipping her a secret note; like they had shared a joke no one else would understand.

Or she was imagining it, which was entirely possible. Probable, really. It wasn’t often that Barbara was included in the joke.

And even if… even if she _could_ believe it, she didn’t want to make it a bigger deal than it was. She couldn’t just assume they were friends and ask to hang out with her. Could she?

She didn’t get the chance; not for about a week. Not until the stone came into the picture.

In fact, it was Diana that came to her—or rather, to her rescue, for a second time. Barbara’s ankle twisted barely ten paces out of the lift, and her briefcase seized the moment to spring open, spraying papers across the floor, as if reproaching her for jamming it too full.

Scrambling on hands and knees, cursing her bad leg, Barbara didn’t hear the sound of heels on the floor. But she heard the woodsmoke of her voice. “Good morning.”

Barbara dropped the letter she’d just picked up, her jaw falling alongside. “Hi.”

Diana smiled; there was that same jolt of electricity, the sparkling sense of a shared joke. “How are you finding things?”

“Oh—God—are you kidding? I still pinch myself when I come in.”

Her smile widened; she stowed a sheath of Barbara’s papers in the crook of her arm. “We were never properly introduced.” She extended a hand. “Diana Prince. Cultural anthropology and archaeology.”

Barbara nodded like a puppet, lost for words. _Hello, airhead? You know this one._ “Barbara—Minerva.” She took Diana’s hand. “Geology, gemology, lithology…” The warmth of her palm made Barbara feel slightly giddy. “And part time cryptozoologist.”

Smooth move, ex-lax. Why the hell would she tell her that?

“Wow.” Diana widened her eyes, and opened that golden smile again. Barbara winced, flashing a glance towards her face. If there was ridicule there, she couldn’t find it.

Silly. Of course Diana wouldn’t—Diana had probably never thought unkindly of anyone in her life.

“So,” she chuckled nervously as she reached for the last of her papers. “What’s your side hobby, are you some kind of superhero?”

Diana blinked just a little too hard for Barbara to be sure she had appreciated the joke.

“Because you keep, uh, you keep coming to my rescue.” It was a dumb joke. Oh, God, it was a dumb joke. She was an idiot.

But Diana finally laughed, drawing the smile back to her lips. “Are you sure? I seem to have a habit of making you drop things.”

Relief broke across Barbara’s face; she laughed as well, too loud. “Oh, that’s… that’s all me, trust me. Besides, I’m pretty sure you helped me get the job. Something about your—that shirt—I don’t know, were you wearing perfume? Something made me feel like I maybe had a shot, you know? And, well, hello, here I am, it worked!” She pointed at herself to clarify: _me!_

A crinkle appeared on Diana’s nose, and Barbara flushed.

“Well, I’m glad.” She stood, and Barbara followed suit, though her knees felt a little wobbly. “Congratulations, Barbara.”

The sound of her name in Diana’s mouth was something she hadn’t counted on needing to recover from. It took her a moment to realise she was offering her the files.

“I mean, really—” stumbling to accept them—“I have you to thank, so—can I get lunch? You, lunch. Get you—I mean, do you wanna get lunch? Not now, obviously, it’s morning, but later today, or whenever. Like, around… like, at lunchtime.”

_Barbara, that was a fucking disaster._

Embarrassment reached inside her and plucked some deep and resonant string. Really, Minerva? First thing after seeing her with her top off? Do you want to get _lunch?_

Diana was already backing off. “I have a lot of work today. Maybe another time?”

A pit of snakes twisted in her gut. “Oh. Yeah, I’m—busy today, too.”

Besides, who was she kidding? She was probably, like, sixth in line to ask Diana to lunch just that morning.

Before Barbara could sink into the ground, she was stopped by the sound of—“Diana! Do you happen to know who a… Barbara Minerva is?”

That was—Barbara bobbed forwards, despite herself. “Hi, Carol, hi. It’s me. I’m Barbara. We met the other…”

You know what, maybe it was better she didn’t remember that.

Carol—she swore her eyebrow raised as she glanced between them—Carol had news about… Barbara tried not to let her gaze stray towards Diana as she listened. A personal request—mall heist—the FBI.

“The _FBI?_ ”

The FBI wanted Barbara’s help— _Barbara’s_ help! Artefacts recovered from the jewelry store—they could use her help identifying them. How radical was _that?_ The _FBI!_

She’d heard about it on the news, the heist. The mysterious vigilante dressed in red. _If this sounds familiar_ _, it should._ Oh, it had. Barbara had followed those headlines with the same kindling excitement she’d felt when she realised she shared a city with the snallygaster. (And sure, maybe even rode the metro late at night a couple of times, just in case either of them showed up.) There was no information about her—a woman, that was about all they knew—no footage beyond a few blurred shots snapped by onlookers.

A veritable cryptid, right here in DC.

By nine thirty she had a vault of treasures spread out across her desk. This should have made her day—heck, it should have made her whole week. So why was she feeling so tense? It wasn’t Carol’s dismissal, or the sneer Jake had tossed her way in passing. It was that… feeling—that she’d blown it. Diana had been nice to her, and she’d thrown herself at her like a creep. _Please like me._ God. What must she think of her? She’d start avoiding her for sure. She was probably already warning Carol and Lucy to watch out for her.

By mid-afternoon, Barbara had worked her way frenetically through most of the artefacts left on her table, cataloguing, double checking. There was one item in question that had puzzled the investigators, but she’d held off looking at it til the end, hoping to have chilled out by then.

If she could just remember where…

“Oh! The Empress of Siam.”

For the second time that day, Barbara felt her heart lurch out of her chest, wrenched by some inexplicable geomagnetic dynamo, towards—

Diana came forwards, her gaze resting on the necklace Barbara had just uncovered. She was smiling. “Originally found in the wreck of the _Nuestra Señora de Atocha_.”

That checked out.

It was the first thing to draw Barbara’s eye, too. The jewels themselves were Colombian: Muzo emeralds, if you could believe it. She’d spent an hour examining, triple-checking, breathless. She could tell Diana exactly why conquistadors had fought to get their hands on these little guys—she could show her the dazzling fire in their cut edges, explain the miracle of their origin: hydrothermal crystallization. Water and heat. The way Diana was peering down at them, Barbara could almost believe she’d listen.

Almost.

Barbara had learned a long time ago that most of the things she found cool and interesting were not remotely cool or interesting to other people, and that talking about them was a sure fire way to make herself look silly, or incomprehensible, or just plain weird. It wasn’t worth the risk—not after she’d already messed up once that morning.

“Sorry,” Diana murmured, her voice indeterminably husky. “I couldn’t resist coming to see.”

“Oh,” Nerves prickled the back of her neck. She blinked away the memory of the shirt slipping from Diana’s shoulders. “It’s OK.” She looked blindly into the crate she’d just finished with. Diana watched her fumble through boxes, until—“Here it is.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell…” Yellow-brown, uncut, vitreous luster. It looked like citrine, but that would be… anticlimactic. Barbara reached for the lamp, and then her loupe. Diana’s eyes were an expectant weight on the back of her neck. She swallowed. “I think the technical term here is… extremely lame.”

She couldn’t help the sigh. If she’d just left The Empress until last… Spanish shipwrecks and Muzo emeralds. Way more impressive. In fact, every single item she’d looked at that morning, she’d estimated to a value over twenty thousand dollars. A whole trove of genuine wonders, and this…

“I get it now.”

Diana glanced up, her head tilting a little to the side, like one of those puppies you saw in store windows.

“Oh, well… I get why they wanted to double check this one. It’s just citrine. A classic stone used in fakes throughout history. I can’t imagine it’s worth more than… seventy five dollars.” She shrugged, offering it to Diana. “That’s what’s weird. It’s the only dud.”

Diana hummed as she took it from her, a sound that came from somewhere in her chest. Barbara watched her gaze trace the gold band, the etching still faintly legible. Her gaze intensified, as if to crack the stone in two. “ _Place upon the object held but one great wish…_ ”

Barbara’s head snapped into a cartoonish double-take. “You read _Latin_?”

The question seemed to break her trance. “Yeah. Languages are a… hobby.”

Oh? Barbara said nothing for a moment. She was staring again—disorientated, for a second, by the possibility of something in common. She thought of Thayer Hall; yellowing dictionaries spread across the narrow bed of her student crib.

She shook herself back into the room. Swallowed. “So maybe it’s, like, a lucky charm or something?”

“I guess.” If Diana had noticed her lapse in concentration, she didn’t show it. “Strange.”

They were interrupted by Roger—Roger, who sometimes said hello to Barbara, who had given her his Hershey bar the day she’d forgotten her lunch—stepping between them to clasp the stone in Diana’s hand, closing his eyes in mock ceremony—

“I really wish I had a coffee.”

Then—the strangest thing! He turned away—“You’re funny,” Barbara half-whispered after him—and Jimmy appeared, almost thrusting a spare coffee into Roger’s chest.

“Did you see that?” Barbara glanced back towards Diana, to see if Roger’s incredulous little laugh had made her smile. “Some dreams really do come true.”

“If only.” Diana placed the stone back down, a half-smile tugging on her lips.

She looked almost—she looked sad. Barbara hesitated a moment. There was no real way to ask what she wanted to. She pushed her glasses up her nose and looked around at the riches spread across her desk. “So many things, I don’t even know what I’d wish for.”

Diana didn’t take the bait. Once again, she looked set to vanish like mist. “Well, if you need anything, I’m around.” And she shook her head as Barbara stumbled over impulsive _thank you_ ’s. “That’s alright. It’s my job.”

It wasn’t, though. Just like Leon, just like Roger and his Hershey bar, she had no idea.

“Well,” Barbara stammered. “Thanks for—talking to me.” God. Thanks for _talking_ to me? Way to go, moron. “I mean…” She could feel her cheeks seeping color. “I’m fine.”

She pirouetted away, picking up a clipboard and cringing behind it. She had to… she should double-check the stone again, just to make sure. Focus on _that_ anomaly, rather than what a fantastic loser she was. Or—

“You know, we _could_ go and grab early dinner, and talk about exactly how lame that stone is.”

Or that. Her eyes leapt from the clipboard. “Really?”

“I mean, citrine?” Risking a glance towards Diana’s face, she was surprised by the puckish expression she found there. “Who are they kidding, right?”

She was serious? Wait. She was serious.

“So lame! Lame! Like, the lamest of lames…” Barbara almost flung the citrine back into its case, slamming the lid shut.

Even when she’d handed her the botched attempt at an invitation, she hadn’t imagined a world in which… she accepted it. But Diana said, “Let's go,” and Barbara stumbled after her as if on a leash.

Within half an hour, she found herself seated at a rooftop terrace off Lafayette Square, with a view of the President's Park spread beneath her like a picnic blanket. She’d only had three sips of lager and she felt dizzy. Her cheeks ached from holding a smile for so long.

“So, where are you from, where’s… where’s that voice from?” Was that impolite? Laughter bubbled anxiously in her throat. “It’s a good voice, I just, I’ve never heard that accent around here. I mean, because I would definitely remember. Like, hello? It’s very, it’s very, you know… wow.”

God. This was a mistake.

Conversation, for Barbara, was like winding a clockwork mouse. She could turn the key in her mind, but when she set the words to her tongue there was no telling how long they would run on for, or where they would stop.

But Diana chuckled in the depths of her throat, like the deep chuffing of a tiger. “Oh… from far, far away.”

Like Heaven?

Barbara swallowed, and Diana nodded towards her. “What about you, have you always lived here?”

“In DC? No. I, uh… I grew up in Oregon. Moved out after high school, and, um…toured the country, I guess! I got my... my degrees in a few different states.” You should have built a nest by now, her mother would have said. Should have found somewhere to settle down, should be sitting on the uncomfortable white egg of her oncoming middle-age, should have surrounded herself with the twigs of domesticity, of happiness, of everything. But she hadn’t; it had never happened. She shrugged, a smile darting to her lips. “Staying in one place is, you know… sedimentary.”

Diana laughed, nodded. “I know.” And Barbara felt herself gleaming a little under her attention. She seemed to get Barbara’s jokes. She seemed to get… _Barbara_.

“So how many languages do you speak? You said it was, uh, a hobby.”

“Oh,” Diana parried with a nonchalant backhand stroke that would have impressed Billie Jean King. “I lost count. Language is… a passion of mine. You only truly hear the voice of a people in their mother tongue. Even when they’re long gone.”

“I… I know what you mean.” Pausing; then—“I st—I taught myself a little Ancient Greek during university.”

“Oh?” A sunbeam had brightened her eyes. She leaned forwards, her fingers slipping down the stem of her glass.

“Well, I… I sort of stumbled through Homer while I was writing my first dissertation, yeah.” Bacchanalian laughter and the smell of marijuana seeping under her door, that old tongue on her lips. It had tasted like heresy, tasted like twelfth grade, like blood in her mouth and the sting of boiling tarmac. “It was—I called it _Voices in Marble_ , the dissertation—it was about the, uh… the importance of natural ores in the rise of Ancient Greece, and, you know, the cultural significance of contemporary classical digs, and I wanted to… absorb myself in…”

“To find the connection.”

Barbara swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I understand.”

The sun was in her hair and in her smile. It hung behind her in the sky, like a crown. Or a halo. Something that angels would wear.

“So did you figure it out?”

“Huh?” Barbara broke from her daze.

“What you would wish for, did you decide?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe… someone…” The words ran dry in her throat.

“Oh,” Diana smiled, eyes twinkling—teasing? “Someone, I see.”

“What? Oh—” Had the breeze gone? God, it was warm. “No, not a… not a specific someone.” Already it tasted like a lie. “Just someone to…” Don't say it, Barbara, don't— “...like me, I guess.”

“I don’t think you need a lucky stone for that.” It took a second for her to realise—Diana was being kind. Again.

“You wanna bet?” She laughed. “I haven’t, uh… people don’t, really, much.” Wait, what did that imply? “I mean, guys don’t.” Was that worse? “Not that guys aren’t people!” God! Wrap it up, Barbara, come on. “I mean, are they, though? Who knows!”

That was worse. That was so much worse.

Her eyes leap-frogged to Diana’s face, looking for the telltale spasm of discomfort. But she was smiling.

“I think it would take a century to learn the answer to that.” She turned her gaze out towards the sky. “This world of men is… not a kind one. Not yet.”

If she noticed Barbara’s blunder at all, she was doing a great job of pretending she hadn’t.

“Tell me about it.” Barbara laughed, slightly lightheaded. “Who’s got time for that? I mean, men? Mainly, I date rocks.”

“Barbara!” Diana tossed her head again, whickering that throaty laughter. The sunset stoked embers in her eyes. “You are so funny. So funny.”

And she squeezed Barbara’s hands with both of her own, a gesture so warm and bracingly intimate that she felt it should leave burns. For a second Barbara stared at her fingers where Diana had touched them, and she didn’t say anything except, “I—yeah.”

It wasn’t that Barbara didn’t date guys. It was just… she hadn’t, for awhile. She was out of the loop, was all. Distracted. Men didn’t look at her, didn’t… see her. Not in that way—not in any way, usually. Besides, there was no time for company in the evenings when you had a dozen research projects on the go. It wasn’t like she was lonely or anything. Well, not all of the time. That’s what books were for. And she couldn’t remember a guy ever doing anything to her that felt particularly great, anyway.

“What about you, have you… have you ever been in love?”

Diana cut her gaze away, back to the sky. “A long, long time ago.”

She didn’t say anything else, and maybe that meant she didn’t want to broach it, but Barbara heard herself chattering on anyway. “What happened? Where did he go, your…” She hesitated—“guy.”

She imagined the smallest flinch at the corner of her mouth. “He, ah… he died.”

Well done, Barbara.

Diana’s smile curled, softly, sweetly. Tenderness misted her eyes. A pilot, she said. _It was true._

Barbara watched her, as closely as she felt she was allowed to. Of course… of course it was true love. How could it be anything else, for someone like her? How could anyone look at her and not… not…

She dropped her gaze to her empty plate.

“You’re thinking about it?” Diana murmured.

Barbara jumped. “Huh? I’m not…”

“The stone?” She nodded, like she was coaxing words from a baby. “Something is on your mind.”

“Oh—” Barbara clung at the life raft she’d thrown her. “The citrine. Yeah, I… yes, actually, that, I… I mean, weird, right? Whoever was running the show behind that store, they were right on the money with everything else. Everything had some sort of cultural… even historical significance. I feel like maybe I missed something, you know? Maybe I didn’t look close enough?” She pushed her glasses up her nose, skipping laughter like a stone across water. “But it doesn’t matter, I, uh… I always feel like I’m missing something. I’d miss my head if it wasn’t attached! Is that the phrase? No…”

Diana gave a gentle huff of amusement. Her eyes hadn’t lost their spark of warmth. “You know, if it really was as valuable as those other pieces, you might find some mention of it somewhere…”

“Yeah, I was going to… look through my encyclopaedias, check out the library…” In front of Diana, it didn’t sound quite so nerdy. “I mean, it’s for the FBI, right? Gotta be thorough.”

“When do you have to give your report back? Have you got time?”

“Oh—it’s two weeks. I can read a lot of books in two weeks. I’ll be fine.”

Her smile widened a little more. “Do you want help?”

“Help? From… you?”

“Well, I’ve got a slow week—”

“Yes. Yeah. Absolutely.” Way too fast, Barbara, _way_ too fast. “That would be… that would be so cool! We could be partners! I mean, like detectives, detective partners, friends!”

“Great,” she said—almost definitely to shut Barbara up—but Barbara’s heart swelled anyway, a wave of fondness leaping to her breast, leaving her tingling. “I’ll stop by the library tomorrow.”

“We could go after work!” Her smile hitched. “Not that—not together, necessarily. But it could be together, I mean, sure, if you wanted to. Ow, you twisted my arm!” She became uncertain what to do with her arm, which she’d thrown out in a sort of flapping gesture that the situation definitely hadn’t called for. She rolled her shoulder into a shrug and performed a cursory inspection of her nails. “Uh, separately works too. We can totally just compare notes at the end of the… yeah.” Cut the mic, genius, cut the mic! “Shall we get the check?”

By now Diana was laughing again, her eyes crinkling into those bright little crescent-moons. She leaned back, and to sit beneath her gaze felt like midsummer, felt like drenching sunlight. “Let’s do that, Barbara.”

“I got it—” Barbara dove gratefully into her purse, and maybe her hearing was muffled, but—

“Together.”

She wasn’t sure if she meant the check, or—but did it even matter? Barbara would have said yes to anything—to the bill, to the library, to life.

They walked—together—past the downtown bars spilling laughter and soft music. The sidewalk had turned a gentle pink in the twilight. The last brave joggers flitted like fireflies ahead of them in florescent colors. It was still warm.

Diana… God, there was something cosmic about her, wasn’t there? A gravitational pull. Something in her voice, in her eyes, something that could tear asteroids off course, something that could fling you headlong into the sun.

You couldn’t see the stars in DC, not under the city smog, but when they parted ways at the Watergate Hotel, Barbara felt like… like she’d spent the last three hours with her eye pressed to a telescope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! We're staying pretty close to canon for now, but maybe you spotted a few differences...? 👀


	3. Ocelot

Barbara tapped her foot on the corner of First Street. Behind her, the Neptune fountain burbled a continuous, hushing whisper.

6:32, and no sign of Diana.

She might have gotten held up on her way out of her office; Carl had been hovering over the fax machine when Barbara left, shiny-eyed, waiting to swoop. Or maybe she’d been wrapped up in her work and forgotten to look at the clock; that one happened to Barbara all the time. She’d fallen asleep in her office twice already—and stashed a wash bag in her drawer for next time.

Or she might have… she might have just decided not to come.

Which was no problem at all! Barbara could do the research just fine; it wasn’t like she was shy of reading. And before yesterday, the thought of company hadn’t even occurred to her. So there was nothing lost there.

She craned her neck to look down Independence Avenue. Someone in a long coat was coming—oh, but it was the wrong color. Shoot.

Perhaps she’d taken a more leisurely route through the park. That was possible.

Barbara took off her glasses, scrubbed them on the bottom of her knitted waistcoat, and put them back on. Diana didn’t appear.

What was an acceptable amount of time to wait? Maybe half an hour? No, too long. She didn’t want to be hanging around like a stray dog if Diana came by later.

She’d wait another ten minutes. Just in case.

In truth, Barbara probably spent more time at the Library of Congress than she did at home. There were always people here: browsing shelves, turning fragile pages, scribbling in notebooks—scholars engrossed in their research, who didn’t glance up as she passed. Nobody talked to her; nobody talked to anybody. And Barbara kinda liked that. She wasn’t weird to anyone here; no one was _anything_ to anyone here. You could go three hours without raising your head, and no one would lift an eyebrow.

It was Tuesday, so it would be Miguel behind the reference desk. She’d memorised the name badges of all the librarians who worked here; good manners when you had a list of requests as long as your arm, and sometimes, it made them smile. If love was a language spoken in many tongues, then this was Barbara’s: she paid attention. She—

“Hi.” Barbara jumped out of her skin as Diana appeared next to her. Holy crap. Diana. Still wearing her crisp suit and her long, curling smile, and carrying two cones of ice cream. “I thought pistachio, I don’t know why.”

 _Seriously?_ No one liked pistachio. Except—Diana, apparently. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever even… tried…”

“You should.” She gave hers a lick—that same ugly green, already threatening to melt over her fingers—and Barbara wanted, suddenly, to laugh. Diana was here; she’d shown up; she’d got her an ice cream! This might just be the best day of Barbara’s life.

The fountain chattered alongside them. Tritons blew upon their conches, nereids capered atop their wild horses, as if they were all offering their personal congratulations. It turned out pistachio ice cream wasn’t so bad.

She worked it out, of course. The lunch; the ice cream; the library. It was a welcome. A gesture from a benevolent colleague. It was obvious, when you thought about it. Diana was kind—she was _so_ kind. She was beautiful in as many ways as a person could be.

But here was the thing.

Diana was there the next day. And no one was _that_ generous.

Barbara hadn’t come at the same time on purpose, obviously—it just so happened that at six twenty-five, she was making her way across Union Square onto Independence Avenue, and—there she was. Sitting at the edge of The Court of Neptune, droplets hitting her cheek like sea spray. She was gazing up at the naked god with an appraising frown, and across her knee she was scrunching the paper bag of whatever treat she’d bought on the way. She looked up, caught Barbara in the laser beam of her eyes, and she smiled.

“Shall we try the Asian Reading Room today? Or Middle Eastern… A Roman artefact could have made its way to anywhere, really.”

Her stomach tightened, just a little. Once was generous, twice was… unbelievable. She turned it over in her mind, like a gemstone beneath her microscope. But she couldn’t see what she was looking at.

On Wednesday, Diana suggested Hispanic texts; on Thursday, African and Hebraic. Barbara worked alongside her, perusing encyclopaedias, exhibition catalogues, travelogues journalling old digs. They stayed til closing, every night.

And the question hung behind her, biting at the back of her neck. _Why?_

It was academic, obviously. Diana was a keen scholar, and the citrine had caught her interest, just like it had Barbara’s. That wasn’t unexpected for someone in her field, but Barbara hadn’t imagined she’d be so… thorough.

For one thing, Diana moved through books at a pace that put even Barbara to shame. In fact, it occurred to her that Diana wasn’t reading at all, merely turning the pages to humor her. Maybe that was her idea of philanthropy: donating a week of service here and there to the socially destitute of DC. Maybe she felt so sorry for Barbara that—

But that was another thing. The books. The way she handled them. She walked with them spread in her arms, rifled through their pages, touched them with a casual intimacy that sent Barbara’s heart rate through the roof. If the librarians saw her—! But if they glanced from time to time, scandalised by her bare hands on centuries-old script, they were diplomatic enough to hold their tongues.

Heedless of her transgressions, Diana would lean over the text with her notepad at her side and her pen in her mouth, brow furrowed into an expression of ferocious concentration, like she was dangling a fishing hook in front of the page and waiting for the answers to leap upon it.

That thirst. It was something Barbara could recognise; something she knew all too well. Something that belonged to children and uni grads and friendless dweebs who fell asleep with their head in a book more often than on a pillow. Not sophisticated professors of archaeology with lives sleek enough to slip inside a well-ordered Filofax.

And there were other things that didn’t quite add up. Didn’t quite fit the image of Diana Prince she’d had in her head.

It was a conundrum that Diana added to every day.

And it kind of got to her. Because this was Barbara’s _thing_. This was her whole deal. She noticed stuff. Caught the details. Joined the dots. But no matter how much attention she paid to Diana Prince, she couldn’t quite figure her out.

Every night, after the library shut at nine thirty, Diana would walk her home. No kidding; _every_ night. On the way, Barbara would talk—out of instinct, mostly: a need to fill the silence, and maybe an excuse to keep those eyes on her, too. She’d chatter about her day, tell her how she picked up the wrong type of milk at the supermarket yesterday, and hey, had Diana caught that _Ghostbusters_ flick that came out the other week? Pointless, stupid things. Diana would listen, and she’d smile. Sometimes Barbara thought she’d see her looking at her with an expression like…

But then again, Diana had strange reactions to a lot of stuff, if you were looking closely. Sometimes, she’d catch sight of something—something mundane: a pram, a scrawl of graffiti, a lost sneaker, and her eyes would fill with a strange tenderness that Barbara couldn’t begin to pin down.

When she introduced her to Leon, it took her seconds to recognise the military in him. And Leon regarded her in the same way—respectfully—noticing something about her, perhaps, that Barbara had missed.

_So come on, Minerva: what is it? What aren’t you seeing?_

She’d drop questions here and there, in moments where it felt appropriate. All the ice-breakers she’d banked to memory in case she needed to use them: ‘Where did you study?’ or ‘Who’s your home team?’ or ‘Were you part of a sorority?’ That one made Diana laugh.

The rest she deflected as if with a rapier. Before you saw her lips move, she’d already changed the topic.

And Barbara accepted it; she did. People could be cagey about their past. God, she should know. She just… she wanted to _understand_ Diana. There was something about her that made Barbara’s heart forget its rhythm, like a rocking boat, her dad’s old boat swaying on the Wallowa Lake. “Don’t worry,” he’d told her, covering her smaller hand with his. “That’s just Big Wally letting us know he’s there.”

She’d looked—God, she’d looked!—but she hadn’t seen Big Wally. Not even a shadow. But imagining that rippling serpent beneath her, Barbara’s heart had trembled—and not from fear.

That was how it felt to be around Diana. To be in the presence of something… below the surface. Something crouching in the grass. And she might have put that otherness down to a foreign upbringing, or a taciturn nature, or just the kind of label you got branded with in high school—didn’t she know about that better than anyone?

But then there was what happened on Saturday night.

It was pretty late; they’d taken a route through NoMa—towards an esteemed noodle chef, apparently. Diana, as it turned out, was a fond connoisseur of street food. Who knew, right? Another one to add to the mental corkboard.

Barbara usually avoided these dimmer alleyways. The underpasses. DC wasn’t exactly known as a safe city. Even here, right in its heart, you had to watch yourself. Hanover Place was just a couple of blocks away, and bad news hung around in those streets like smoke.

Like this—right ahead, a burst of whooping laughter made her jump. Against the gray stone of the L Street Underpass, five sloping forms skulked like a pack of dogs.

Just boys, they were just boys, leaning against the wall, kicking their empty cans to the curb. But Barbara was wary of the type of boys that hung out after dark. She knew the kind of jeers they tossed when they were offered an easy target.

And right on cue: Barbara and Diana, fresh as meat.

The boys watched them, their laughter falling quiet, their eyes sharpening in the half-light. One of them flicked a cigarette butt, spattering the sidewalk with hot ash. Broad, blond; Barbara knew the type. She’d cross streets to avoid walking past bullies like him.

Diana barely looked at them. Like she couldn’t see the guy’s lip curling as they approached—as they passed—they had passed—

_Freaks._

Even whispered under his breath, even disguised as a cough, it locked her up. Her shoulders clenched; muscles turned to stone. They’d been too close, their heads tucked together in conversation. God, she should have… she shouldn’t have…

Keep walking, Barbara. Just keep walking, you’re fine.

Beside her, Diana stopped.

“Did you say something?”

“Diana—” _Are you kidding?_ She was just walking up to them? Did she know kids these days? They could have anything on them. “ _Diana—_ ”

“I didn’t hear you.” She gestured to the underpass, its steel beams, its brooding shadows, as if she was addressing a full amphitheatre. “Do you want to say it again? In front of your friends?”

The air changed, like a storm had just rolled in.

The boy eased himself from the wall. An ugly smirk spread across his mouth. His cronies roused themselves, hooting like the kind of chimps that had always scared her a little in the documentaries.

Diana strode towards him. She was smiling, like she always was. That bright, wide smile that bared all her teeth.

Jesus. God. They were going to die. They were going to die in a ditch just off downtown on a Saturday night, because apparently, Diana Prince was an idiot.

They stopped, face to face. Diana still looked perfectly amicable; the blond, meanwhile, was sizing her up with a shit-eating grin. Barbara watched the reflexive curl of his fingers, and she thought, it’s a knife, he’s got a knife, you’ve got to move, Diana, we’ve got to _run_ —

Diana stepped towards him so fast that he stumbled backwards and fell smack onto his butt.

Laughter boomed like thunder. His friends folded, all of them. But he seemed not to care; he scrabbled to his feet, tripped across the sidewalk, zig-zagged down the street and disappeared. His friends were left to glance at each other, and then at her, this slender elk of a woman regarding them with a pleasant smile.

One by one, they sloped after him.

“Sorry.” Diana, back at her side, like she’d just stopped to tie a shoelace. “What were you saying?”

But Barbara had forgotten. She followed Diana out of the underpass, staring at her like she was spun from gold. “Weren’t you afraid?”

“They were just teenagers.”

From her expression, Barbara couldn’t tell if she was explaining her lack of fear, or why she had gone easy on them.

Diana walked her straight home, forgetting the noodles. And honestly? Barbara was grateful. Her heart felt like it might just boil over. The pounding of it was… ridiculous. Stupid. She hadn’t done anything. Nothing had happened to her. She wasn’t even totally sure what _had_ happened. Was it normal? What she’d just seen? What Diana had just… was that just a Saturday night for her? God, her pulse… her knees… her _heart_.

Deep breaths, Barbara. It was just the adrenalin sticking around in her bloodstream. Nothing that couldn’t be cured by a cup of cocoa, an hour of whales mooing on the cassette player, maybe a couple of—

“Can I come in?” Diana swung her arms on Barbara’s doorstep. “For dinner?”

Oh. Right. Right, then.

Her mouth opened, and when no other words came out of it, she spluttered, “You… sure—you sure can, partner!”

Jesus, Barbara, where the hell did _that_ voice come from?

And Diana stepped into her apartment. Barbara’s stomach curled like a salted slug as she scanned her own living room—books splayed on the floor, last night’s coffee mug housing the crumpled remnants of a pack of Hydrox cookies, the… the black and white polaroids spread out on the table.

_Shit._

“Don’t mind these—” Barbara lunged to scrape them up. “I was reminiscing, um… shots from an old—trip.” She dove into the fridge.

“Oh.” She could hear the smile in her voice. “Where did you go?”

“Um.” What was she doing in the fridge with the photos still in her hand? “Lacandon Jungle, Mexico.” She stashed the polaroids between the yoghurt and milk cartons, and cast a frantic look at the shelves. “Sometime in ’65. Looking for… rare animals.”

Oh, God. The only thing in Barbara’s fridge resembling what you might generously call ‘dinner’ was the last half of a thoroughly miserable looking pizza. Why hadn’t she stocked her cupboards? People had guests over all the time, that was a normal thing that people did. Why the hell hadn’t she thought of this?

“You must have been young. What did you find?”

“Um. Well. Nothing.” Should she be offering her a drink? God, she wasn’t good at this. She thrust the pizza into her new microwave oven and cranked the dial. “But I did hear a noise one night. It was about 3am.” Was she babbling? She was. “I’d been waiting—sat there with my camera, my notebook, my boots on, even this… I had this little, um, headband torch—I was all set. But I, uh, I jumped up too quick and got tangled in my tent. Grabbed at my camera to stop it falling, pressed the button, lit up the whole area. Yeah…”

Diana tipped back her head, and laughed with her whole throat. She made a sympathetic clucking noise that sounded like, ‘ _Né_.’

Diana Prince. In her apartment. Laughing. As if the night hadn’t been wild enough.

They fell into silence—an easy one, thank God, with the microwave humming between them. People fussed about radiation, but it had halved the number of nights Barbara had skipped eating because she was engrossed in what she was doing. She’d take her chances.

“I saw her, though. For a second.” She glanced up at Diana, just long enough to gauge her interest, then set her eyes back on the spinning plate. “It was just a cat. An ocelot. She took one look and me and ran away.” She chuckled, a bright pearl of nostalgia rising in her throat. “I kinda… I kinda wish I _hadn’t_ spotted her, you know? Then I’d probably have started this story with ‘let me tell you about the time I met a cryptid.’”

“Perhaps that’s how she starts _her_ stories.” Diana winked, mischief fluttering briefly to her smile, and then fading. “Sometimes it is better simply to wonder. I tell myself that all the time.”

Barbara stared at her. She was still trying to figure out the best way to answer when the microwave pinged, startling her back to reality.

The pizza tasted like old cardboard. Worse than old cardboard. But Diana didn’t seem to mind; she curled her legs on Barbara’s sofa, plate balanced on her lap, and talked—about whatever nonsense thing came to her mind. She liked Barbara’s plants, and the photos she’d framed, and did the china parrot over there have a name?

Barbara watched her. Diana Prince, who liked pistachio ice cream and would walk an extra five blocks for Vietnamese noodles. Diana Prince, who could scare off a gang of thugs without saying a word.

She must have noticed. Walking home—she’d noticed Barbara’s tight jaw, or her clenched fingers, or the slight tremor in her hand when she put her key to the door. That’s what was happening here. She’d noticed, and she’d stayed. To make sure Barbara was alright.

And now Diana—Diana Prince, the kindest person she’d ever met—tipped a slice of pizza into her mouth, and smiled at her.

And the question shifted somewhere, shedding its skin. No longer _‘why?’_ , but _‘who are you?’._

***

She came again the next night. And the next. Not straight away—first she’d leave Barbara on her doorstep and go for a run, claiming to need the exercise. The _exercise_. “I have a lot of energy,” she told her, chuckling at her doubtful look. “I need to let it loose.”

When she came back, she’d be wearing nothing but shorts with a baggy vest tucked into them, like some feral dorm student. Unpinned from its coiffure, her hair was longer, denser. She’d wear it loose, or pin it back with a clip that trembled to hold it. She went barefoot, padding about Barbara’s flat like a nocturnal hunter. And it _was_ like something you’d see in the wild: an animal surveying, exploring, settling into new territory.

Day by day, her hackles relaxed. The ease settled between them, like a warm blanket. Even Barbara found her tongue loosening, found her shoulders unclenching, found herself worrying less about what to say, which parts of herself to show. And Diana… Diana grew more vibrant by the night. She laughed, she drank the wine she often brought, she became tactile with her hands, and smiled as she spoke, as if she was slowly releasing herself from a cage, a cage she had inhabited for awhile.

And all evidence pointed to the conclusion that she… she was enjoying herself. Being there. With Barbara. But that—that was inconclusive. _Where’s your data, Minerva?_ Check; double check. She examined the moments that passed between them the same way she’d look at diamonds under the jeweler’s eye. Well? What have we got here? Natural or manufactured? A good fake? Or the real thing?

It was more than curiosity; it was intrigue now. Diana Prince was a puzzle, one far more intriguing to Barbara than some dollar-store citrine. But how to assemble her, with so many pieces missing?

Sometimes she’d give her a clue, unbidden: an anecdote here and there: ‘My friends in the war,’ or ‘One time in Belgium…’ It didn’t help Barbara fit the pieces together, not at all, but she liked when Diana shared things with her. A little glow of gratification each time: you did something right!

Mostly, Diana listened. And Barbara talked— _of course she did_ —about her research, her passions, her favourite rocks. Even her old studies.

“Your _Iliad_.” Diana turned to Barbara’s bookshelves, her eyes reaching up like a child in a sweet shop. “Do you still have it?”

“Um.” Barbara watched, a knot squirming in her belly, as Diana’s finger hovered like a slender damselfly over the spines. Her heart sped up in a way she didn’t much care for. It was stupid, but—the way Diana looked at those books in the library, the way she seemed to draw in the world with the gravitational pull of her eyes, the way she perceived everything, everything, all the time… it was kinda scary.

“Do you want a drink?” That would distract her.

“Oh, I brought wine.” Diana smiled as she plucked _The Iliad_ from its hiding place. “Here you are.”

 _Dammit._ Thwarted, Barbara took the opportunity to scuttle away into the kitchenette, where one of Diana’s dusty bottles sat on the sideboard. God knew where she got them.

From the living room, a delighted gasp. “You wrote _notes_.”

How much would it hurt if she just jumped off the balcony? Barbara cringed, pulling glasses down from the cupboards and pouring with an unsteady hand. “You, uh, you speak Ancient Greek, too?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Diana smiling in a way that didn’t quite translate. Like she was sharing a private joke with herself. “I do.”

Of course she did. “You’re a real polyglot, huh.” It came at her again, that relentless question: _who are you?_

“I had good teachers.” Parry and riposte. What did you expect, Barbara? Just quit it with the…

“Say something.” The response tripped out of her mouth before she could clamp it shut.

God. Barbara. _Manners!_ Barbara whipped around, an apology jumping to her lips—and stopped. _The Iliad_ was lying naked in Diana’s hands, the cover opening languidly to its front page, where, in black ink, she could still make out her own teenage scrawl.

_Barbara Ann Dawson._

Her stomach turned like a screw. Nausea swam to her mouth. Diana, saying nothing, circled the smudged ink with her finger, an intimacy that Barbara felt on her own skin, like electricity. Then she turned the page, and it was over.

“Let’s see…” Flipping through, fingertips light as moths. “What can you remember…?”

Her thumb ran down the pages, slipping them open at a place of her liking.

And she read. Her voice dropped to the back of her throat, and leapt—from syllable to syllable, boundlessly agile; a goat skipping over rocks. Her eyes lifted back to Barbara’s face, and she finished in a whisper.

Barbara was staring.

“Wow. That was, uh… you were—” She swallowed. “You were talking about Agamemnon attacking the Trojan princes. Like a lion killing fawns.”

Diana’s eyes blossomed with pleasure, and then fell back to the page. “What have you written here? _‘The present…’_ ”

“Yeah.” After a beat, Barbara paced to her side. “I always liked this metaphor. It’s like the violence, the power, fury, of it all—it can’t be contained by tense. The animal—the lion—it’s breaking out of the text.”

Diana looked at her for a long moment in silence. Something hot and metallic in her eyes; something molten. “You are a true scholar, Dr. Minerva.”

“Th-thanks.”

She regarded her for a moment, and it didn’t hurt. Her gaze—it didn’t hurt. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll help you cook.”

There was nothing studious about this anymore. Whatever they were doing together, it was fervid and intense and sleepless, and Barbara felt more alive than she had in any research project she could remember. More alive, perhaps, than in the jungle itself.

She barely thought of the stone at all. Despite the pace of their research, they weren’t getting anywhere. And they wouldn’t—Barbara was familiar enough with a lost cause to know the scent of one.

But this… _this_ she wanted to solve while she still could. This… _Her_.

At their adjacent tables in the Reading Room, Barbara would watch her from over the top of her book: the arrow-lines of her profile, the sharp cliffs of her cheek and brow; features you’d find in some Renaissance portrait, one of Waterhouse’s _Danaïdes_. Her reading speed had rocketed to the absurd. When she thought she was unobserved, she turned pages that she barely looked at. But it didn’t seem like she was stressed.

Or maybe she just contained it better than Barbara.

Because Barbara was stressed, was she ever. It was keeping her up at night, this, _this_ , humming in her chest, like she had a bluebottle in there, trapped in a bell jar, buzzing, buzzing—but it wasn’t the research, was it? It was something scarier than a missed deadline.

Every night, at a certain time, Diana would glance at the window—not her watch, the _window_ , like she was checking to see if the moon had come out. And she’d leave. She never seemed afraid to walk home in the dark. Barbara would wave to her at the door, and then watch her til she reached the end of the street: the sharp silhouette of her coat, her shadow creeping on its belly across the pools of lamplight.

And even though it made no sense, Barbara would find herself smiling.

But so what? That was nothing to feel stressed about. Was it so bad? That she felt happy? No one had been this nice to her in… forever. And that was it; that was all this was. Diana _was_ nice. She was kind, genuine. Not everything was a trick, Barbara, not everything had to be analysed, examined, excruciating. And yet… and _yet_ …

With every day that passed, the question burned hotter in her mind, and she was running out of time. Because there _was_ a deadline, wasn’t there? Without the stone, without that anchor of purpose between them, it would be gone, all of it. The adjacent tables, the slow walks home, the evenings draped across her sofa. Diana; Diana would be gone.

“Are you sad?” She felt them land on her: those keen, all-seeing eyes. “About the stone?”

The stone. It had come back from the lab that afternoon, alongside an inconclusive test report.

“Oh. No. I’m not sad. I just… I really felt like there was something else. You know?”

They were walking side by side through Dupont Circle, a circuitous route that took them into Georgetown via Diana’s favorite spot for churros. She liked to sit here, by the fountain, and scatter the crumbs for the birds.

“Right.” Her thumbs hooked in the straps of Barbara’s rucksack, which she was carrying by way of apology for the extended journey. “Like your ocelot.”

“Oh, I… yeah.” She hadn’t thought about it like that. Honestly, she was surprised that she remembered. But then, of course she remembered. Maybe it was that—the sudden fondness tangling Barbara’s heart—that lent her a voice. “So, uh, Diana… what’s the catch with you, huh?”

“Catch?”

“Yeah, you’ve—you’ve been helping me, hanging out with me for over a week, and I’ve… I’ve been looking for it.” Her jaw tightened like a hunting trap. She tried to force a laugh through the metal teeth. “The catch.”

“The _catch_ …” Diana hummed, a thoughtful expression clouding her brow and then clearing like an open sky. “Oh. Here it is.”

Her arms draped across Barbara from behind—and _pulled_ her, God, right into a hug—two long paws over her shoulders: a big, stupid, lovely bear. Barbara didn’t—couldn’t move. Was she still breathing? Was she dead? Diana looked down at her, frozen witless in her arms, and beamed. “You are the catch. I caught you.”

“Uh, I…” The laugh was out like quicksilver; pure nerves. Oh, Diana—she’d _got_ it. It was you, dummy. _You don’t get it._ Her voice was pantomime, high and stupid. “What, uh, what are you going to do with me?”

As if it mattered. She could tear her apart and Barbara would have praised her appetite.

A hot tissue of breath against her ear. “I haven’t decided yet.”

She growled, and Barbara recoiled, wriggling, laughing, God! _Laughing._ “Diana, has anyone ever told you that you’re a dork? I bet they haven’t. I bet they all think you’re cool and mysterious.”

Diana squeezed her once and released her. It felt like stepping off a rollercoaster. “I am _very_ cool and mysterious, Dr. Minerva.”

Barbara laughed, a hand fluttering to her mouth to disguise the tender shape of her smile.

“I guess you are. I mean, I still haven’t figured you out.”

“No?” She smiled a little, lifting her brow. “I thought you had.”

 _Go on,_ said that eyebrow. _Tell me._

Barbara stared at her—enigmatic, cryptic, incomprehensible Diana. The beast tucked away in its jungle. Not a footprint, not a fossil, not a specimen to be identified and categorised and watched from behind glass. Not something dug from the ground at all; something that still walked upon it. Something real.

“Huh.” One arm slipped in its companionable way through the crook of her elbow, and Barbara let herself be tucked like a missing piece against her side. “As if anyone could.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise now that I could have literally ended the story right here and everyone would have been happy. Welp… on that note, if you only signed up for fluff, this might be the place to jump ship! 
> 
> Special thanks to my friend Moth who literally recorded that passage of The Iliad in Ancient Greek for me to listen to. You are a gem(stone). 💎

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! You made it! 🏆  
> This is my first fic on AO3, so please feel free to tell me if I've messed up with formatting, tagging, and whatnot. In the meantime, stay tuned! You're welcome to come fangirl with me @merrowbell on tumblr if you, too, love nerdy ladies and rock puns.  
> Lastly, special thanks to my pal Harmony for advising me on all things American!


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